Glasgow
by Lady Angelic
Summary: He buried the memory to never be remembered, despite the constant reminder from his scars. But when opportunity strikes, will he take his revenge? Nolanverse. Rated M for graphic violence. Subtle romance in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This is my first story that isn't a oneshot! I'm pretty proud of myself, and am looking forward to completing this piece. For a more detailed description than the summary gave, this story really deals with the origins of the Joker's scars, and how they effect him still. I hope you enjoy, and please remember to review._  
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><p><em>He wanted out. That's how this all started. That's how he ended up in this room, covered in dirt and God-only-knows what else. Former friends of his, the men he had grown close with, worked with on a daily basis, were the ones responsible for his predicament.<em>

"_You know there's no way out, buddy. You knew that when you came to us. You knew it all along, and yet here we are." A tall, broad-shouldered man stood before him. He was shaking his head, looking down his nose at the young man crouched on the floor. "Jack…" he held his hands out, palms up, and frowned. "…Why? You had such potential."_

_Jack looked back at him, bruised, dirty, bleeding. Unshaken. The boy should be cowering, pleading for his life, begging and sniveling… He spat blood, splattering the floor near the man's shoe. The man grimaced, clasped his hands together._

"_Your choice. Beat him." He looked up, eyes dark and unfeeling, and pointed to one of the men holding Jack down._

_A fist collided with Jack's face, sending a sharp pain through his cheek. He felt his brain rattling as blow upon blow landed to his cheek, his eye, his lip, his forehead. He was holding his hands out in defense, but didn't fight back. He wanted to die. He wanted so badly for it all to end. Who needed glory or respect after what he'd done. He was a monster. He hated himself every day he looked in the mirror, at his hands… knowing what they'd done. Knowing the lives he'd taken. He was responsible for the destruction of so many people's happiness._

_He wanted out, and this was the only way._

_Jack had been making a point to casually bring it into conversation with the men he worked with. He'd say "_You know, some day I want to be so far from this all_." Or "_This is no way to live_…" He had planted the seeds of doubt into his fellow's minds. He knew eventually one of them would snitch, as they always did. There was no faster way to climb the ladder than to pull someone else down._

_He hadn't been counting, but there must have been four or five men pounding on his face. He felt his lower lip split, could feel the sweat and blood on his skin. He could feel nothing but knuckles crashing against his face. And then it happened. His mouth began to split. The same spot was being hit, over and over and over until it turned into hamburger meat. The flesh began to part ways, jagged and bleeding, slowly dying… His cheek blossomed open, pulling from the corner of his mouth towards his ear._

_He knew he must have been crying out, screaming in pain, howling… he could feel it tearing every time his mouth opened. The pain was blinding. It felt like fire was leaping from his cheek. He was sure he was roasting alive, and gritted his teeth, screaming deep from his throat, willing himself to die._

_They never stopped beating him. Never once was there a pause in the torture. Someone was gripping his chin with a firm hand, pinching it, turning his face to land another punch square in his mouth, on his nose, to his eye…_

_It all started to blur together._

_He felt something cold on the other side of his face… felt the panic bubble up in his stomach, knowing his end would be near. He could hear the men shouting at each other, the tall man in charge having left the room. They were trying to decide what to do with him._

_Brand. They were to brand him as a traitor and leave him to die._

_The cold thing against his cheek pulled at the corner of his mouth, pulled hard until he felt the very molecules of his skin collapse under pressure and tear apart. His scream was deafening as they cut his other cheek: a clean cut from the corner of his mouth, now bleeding and bruised and swollen, towards his ear. They stopped half way up, his new smile lopsided. One half of his face was beaten open, the other was a half-smile. Someone kicked him hard in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. He gaped, surprised, and let out of yell, screaming as his cheek tore, curling up towards his eye._

_He was bleeding heavily, sweat on his forehead, his skin clammy and pale. He was going to die here. He wanted to so badly. Nothing would have been a greater relief now than to die. To slip into unconsciousness, slip away into nothingness… to slip away from the pain of his life, the pain of his beating, and branding…_

_His vision swirled, he tried to open his eyes, saw hands swinging, men looming, shadows… the ceiling light __blinded him. He closed his eyes, unable to hold them open any longer. He felt the life draining out of him… felt the world becoming distant. He couldn't feel the fists anymore… he couldn't feel anything except the searing pain in his face._

_Jack stopped his fight, bowed to the black that was swallowing him whole, and submitted to its will. It felt like floating, like sinking deep into water. The pressure in his ears was enormous, it filled his mind with sound, coursed through his brain and shocked his whole being. He thought his head would burst. __Darkness fell in from every side, a sphere of singing black. And when he was nothing, compressed at the heart of all that dark, there came a point where the dark could be no more, and something tore._

_He felt himself falling away from the shell of his body that he had come to know. His muscles and skin and bones seemed to melt away as he dissolved into the blackness inside. His humanity slipped from his grasp, and he felt oddly amused by it. His fingers could no longer hold what tied him to decency… What should be making him panic and scramble – it wasn't. He seemed hardly concerned._

_In fact, it _seemed awfully funny to him.

He snapped awake, sitting up in his bed quickly. His breath was heavy, and he could feel sweat on his brow. Hands shaking, his lifted his fingers to his face, the pain very real and sharp, and felt the familiar scars that cut across his skin.

He sighed, lowering his hands to his lap, holding them together tightly, and flopped back into the bed. He tipped his face to the ceiling, closing his eyes. He willed the images to leave his eyes, but they were playing like a movie on his eyelids. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. It was too real for him. He had swallowed that memory years ago, buried it deep inside of him, and here it was: haunting him. Why now? He thought to himself. Of all times to be trapped with _that_, why now?

A buzz sounded down the hall, and he heard the accustomed _clink_ of the door to his ward opening and slamming shut. Another buzz, and then the footsteps he knew to be an orderly making his rounds. He lifted his arm, letting it fall over his face, and covered his eyes with the crook of his elbow.

He wouldn't be falling back to sleep tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note:

Heeeere's Harley. Please enjoy this chapter and it's subtle brand of romance. Remember, this story isn't focused around their romance, but around his scars. And be sure to review.

~Lady Angelic

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><p>"…it's how I got my scars…" he said quietly, peaking over at her. He was laying on his back, hands folded over his stomach. His feet were propped up on the armrest, his ankles crossed, and his head was flat against the seat of the couch. He had just finished telling her about his dream.<p>

"It keeps me awake and I just see it playing over and over in my head. I can't escape it no matter how hard I try." Sincerity rang through his words, and he felt himself bowing with embarrassment. He felt humiliated admitting it to her. But something about the memory shook him deep down inside.

She jotted down a couple notes and looked up at him, catching his gaze. She held it with confidence, studied his face momentarily, and glanced back at her paper. Her lips pressed together ever so slightly, and she brushed blond wisps of hair from her eyes.

She didn't believe him.

He felt the humiliation swell up in his chest and rolled his face away from her, settling his gaze on the back of the couch. He followed the curve of the furniture with his eyes as she gathered her words carefully.

"…have to believe my skepticism…" she started, her voice soft and gentle. He felt his ears growing hot. "You've told me at least a dozen stories on how you've gotten those scars, Mr. Joker, and I really can't believe _any_ of them to be true."

She paused, leaned forward in her chair slightly, fingers curling around the top of her clipboard. She was waiting for any response from him. He normally pouted after she insisted on not believing any story he told. Sometimes he threw a tantrum like a child, so "offended" that she thought him to be lying. This wasn't usual for him. But then again, nothing was terribly usual for him. He was one of the most _unusual_ individuals she had ever worked with.

He was The Joker after all.

She sighed, looking around the room as if for help, and leaned back in her chair. She was slightly exasperated.

_Patient refuses additional conversation…_ she wrote on her notepad.

She crossed her legs and waited patiently for him to continue talking. He continued to look at the back of the couch, eyebrows slightly creased and mouth tensed into a frown. He hated her for not believing him. He never wanted to talk to her again if she wasn't going to take him seriously. He closed his eyes, held them shut and watched the images flash across his eyelids. _The hands swinging, the men looming, the shadows…._

_He remembered waking up in the hospital, being pushed through halls as white as snow. He was blinded by how bright it was: the color and the lights flooded his eyes the second he cracked them open. Noises came in and out of his awareness. He knew he was dying, and wondered why anyone was trying to help him. He should have been left to burn._

_He should have died._

_He felt… nothing. Nothing beyond pain. He felt oddly empty. _

_He drifted away into the blinding lights, closed his eyes and swallowed the empty feeling. He had somehow survived. Someone, something, had kept his hollow heart beating, kept air in his cold lungs. He didn't feel human. He felt… like a monster. He felt _nothing.

_Jack died that day. And a monster replaced him. It slipped into his skin, figured out how to make his fingers move, how to keep his muscles working. It lacked human emotions because it wasn't human. _He_ wasn't human._

_He recovered, slowly. He never said a word to the nurses or doctors, to the other people in beds next to him. He was a walking target for attack. He'd either be killed by the mob he crossed, or forced into exile. His scars were the scars of a traitor. He was branded for life._

_The tissue that grew from his wounds felt alien to him. He would sit and run his tongue along the inside of his cheeks, feeling the swollen, healing flesh. It stung to touch, but that hardly bothered him anymore. They plastered it with ointment, to keep it hydrated, to help the tissue heal, and keep it from scarring too much. He'd have to have corrective surgery to help the damage._

_The ointment was blue. It smelt like rubbing alcohol and burned just as bad. It tasted… sterile. Like cheap liquor and sadness. It made him gag._

He opened his eyes and looked back her, letting his tongue run across his bottom lip. He felt the puckered skin there, the familiar bumps of damaged flesh.

"It's called a Glasgow smile." He murmured. "Do you know what they are?"

She nodded, pressing the top of her pen to her bottom lip. He felt as if she was mocking him, and frowned disapprovingly at her.

"Do you know how people got them?" he questioned, his tone sharper. She nodded again, lowering her pen to her notepad again and scribbling something on it.

"As a sign of intimidation." She replied.

"Or as a branding."

"Why would someone brand you, Mr. Joker?" She asked politely.

"Because I'm a traitor." He mimicked her tone, closing his eyes and sighing as if talking to a child. A very annoying child, he might add.

"Who did you betray?"

He paused and considered her question. "Very powerful men." He replied. "Men who don't like other men ducking out on them. Men who like watching people suffer."

She heard his tone turn south, and shifted in her seat, uncomfortable by his voice. The last thing she needed was for him to get angry.

"I'll be a regular Elizabeth Short before you know it." He crooned.

She frowned at him. "That isn't very appropriate."

"Or maybe I'll turn people into Ms. Short…" he said under his breath, intending for her to hear it and end their session.

"Mr. Joker…" She warned.

He looked up at her, eyes cold and dark, a grimace spread across his face.

"The ointment they used… when I was in the hospital. It tasted awful. It was never meant to be used inside a mouth." He opened his mouth, turned his head from side to side to show her what he meant. One hand lazily lifted up, a finger pointing to either corner of his mouth. "Vile blue stuff."

She followed his movements, knowing full-well what his scars looked like. It wasn't the first time she had seen them, and it wasn't going to be the last. It was a miracle he survived. The left half of his "smile" was puckered, uneven, and unfortunate. The right half was much cleaner, until the end where it curled up towards his eye.

He was an attractive man despite the scars. He had a strong jaw, a charming gaze, and a broad nose… He looked brooding, as if there was always something troubling him. But then again, it could have just been the memory of his past. It hadn't been a pleasant one, she was sure. She enjoyed his features, no matter how tired and beaten they looked. He was tall with broad shoulders, and long, thin legs. He looked spidery at times. The way his fingers seemed to stretch on…

He might have been good at piano, she mused.

If what he had told her was true… She swallowed, feeling nauseated at the thought. What had he done to deserve this?

"Tell me about what happened before you got your scars." She said softly.

He looked at her, his expression worn, and slowly blinked.

"I don't remember." He said simply.

"Nothing at all?"

He twisted his mouth, pulling the corners of his lips inward and shook his head.

"Nothing." He replied. "All's I know is… that I wanted out." He lifted his hands towards his face, surveying his knuckles, then twisting his wrists to look at the dirt under his nails. He wished they hadn't been cuffed. It was such an annoyance to him. "I was si_ck_ of being used."

What a joke. His brow furrowed as he stared at his fingernails. He wanted out because he felt guilty. The knot in his stomach caused him such discomfort that he'd rather have died than continue to live with the feeling. He had been sick of being used, sure: but he was more sick with himself. He was sick of the things his name would forever be associated with. A murderer. A gambler. A very dangerous man.

Where was he now, though? He snickered bitterly to himself, letting his hands fall over his stomach. He was responsible for the destruction of half of Gotham. He was a terrorist, a sociopath: an unfeeling, inhuman _thing_ that – just for fun – walked about in human skin, luring people to their own death.

Only this time, he couldn't care less of the people he killed. They were nameless, faceless beings easily discarded and forgotten. They weren't close to him. They meant nothing to him. He was _The Joker_. He wasn't a young Jack who still felt, who still cared.

He closed his eyes, sighing. She was saying something, but he wasn't listening. Her words sounded muffled and distant. Opening his eyes again, he composed himself. He swallowed the memory for the moment, and rolled his face to observe his doctor once again.

She was awfully pretty.

_It'd be a shame if someone were to cut her face_.

The way she held herself when she spoke, how she occasionally turned her head slightly to one side or the other, as if whatever she was saying was nonchalant: it was amusing to him. Her mouth continued to move, and he nodded his head now and again to appear to her that he was truly listening.

He wasn't.

He was studying her face.

_She barely even had a freckle_.

She lifted her hand to brush hair from her eyes, using the back of her index finger to accomplish her job, continuing all the while to talk. Elizabeth Short's crime scene photos flashed through his mind once again. _Her _arms were lifted above her head, and it was all that the Joker could do to not compare his doctor's raised hand to that of the dead woman's.

He smiled darkly at the thought.

_It would be a shame if someone were to cut her face._


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: I have heard your cries: "Why isn't there more romance? what is wrong with her? why isn't she falling in love with him already?"

Well, my response is simple: I'm getting there. I promise. This is a subtle romance I am building here, one where Harley is her own woman first, and, for believable reasons, finds herself falling for a sociopath. It'll be here shortly, don't you worry. Within the next couple of chapters, it'll be in your face and undeniable, but still subtle.

In the mean time, please enjoy some more exposition for their relationship. I felt it needed a lot more time to build up to a romance.

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><p>He was known for his stories: how he murdered a bus full of nuns and school children, or how he skinned a cat in front of its owner. Half the things he said were a lie. She wrote them down, but unless there was actual police files for it, she didn't believe him. She wasn't naive or gullible. She knew he was trying to string her along.<p>

But somehow, she found herself becoming immersed in his world or stories. And that's all they were: stories. She found them amusing, thrilling at times, and overall extremely morbid. He would say things just to see her react. Like how he'd scalped a blonde lady and left her to bleed to death. Or how he'd raped this horrid prude of a lady.

They were all aimed at her. He was trying to make her uncomfortable.

Of course, she was a trained professional. They never really phased her.

But one day, she found a newspaper article. She wasn't looking for anything in particular about The Joker. She was, in fact, looking quite hard for something on another patient and it just crept up on her:

"_**Young Man in Hospital After Brutal Attack**_

_Last Monday, a Gotham man was admitted to the hospital after a gang-related attack. He is stable and doctor's say he should make a full recovery. Police are offering a reward for anyone with information regarding his identity or the identity of his attackers._

"_What was so disturbing," Police Commissioner says "were the types of wounds he received. It was a miracle he survived."_

_When ambulances arrived, the man had suffered from severe blood loss as a result of deep wounds to his face. He had a broken nose and a severe concussion resulting in, what doctors believe to be, amnesia._

_For any information regarding his attack…"_

Doctor Quinzel could hardly believe her eyes. He hadn't been lying after all. She felt her face flush with embarrassment and excitement. If he hadn't been lying… that meant something. Something big.

She copied the article immediately and placed it in his file.

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><p>It became commonplace for them. He would come in, looking sullen and would flop into the couch in a bit of a huff. He'd put on a show for the guards, complaining loudly that he would rather have his teeth pulled one by one than sit through another grueling session of therapy.<p>

She would roll her eyes, thank the guards, and close the door behind him, waiting patiently for his protesting to end before she'd take her seat across from him.

It was very stereotypical the way he just laid there on the couch. She had never asked him to lay down. Asking someone to lay down before you was a very intimate thing to ask: it required trust on both halves of the relationship. She knew he didn't trust her, let alone anyone else. And she sure as hell didn't trust him.

"I found you in the newspaper the other day." She started casually one day, sitting down in her chair and crossing one leg over the other. His file was underneath her clipboard today, and he found that unusual.

He surveyed her out of the corner of his eye, following the line of her leg as she crossed it. "Join the club. I've been in…" he looked up at the ceiling, pretending to do math as he counted "… at least a dozen articles. I _am_ a celebrity, you know."

"This one was different." She placed the file on top of her clipboard and opened it, pulling out the copied newspaper article. She leaned forward, her arm outstretched, holding the paper for him to take.

He pursed his lips and took the paper from her. He didn't look away from her until he had settled back on the couch, still lounging comfortably as if he owned the place. As soon as he was situated, he gave her one last wary look, and glanced at the paper.

He felt his stomach drop and swallowed hard to keep from coughing up his lunch. He stared at it, not having to read it to know what it was. His eyes darkened and his muscles tensed in his jaw. He didn't say anything, didn't move, or even breathe for what seemed like an eternity.

She waited for him to respond. When he didn't, her brows furrowed slightly. She thought it would help start the conversation for the afternoon, but instead, she feared she might have just closed any door that had before been open between them.

"I thought you'd like to see some proof of your existence before your infamy." She said quietly, trying hard not to sound ashamed.

He slowly sat up, swinging his legs off of the arm of the couch. He let his feet hit the ground and straightened his back, still holding the paper in front of his face.

He could hardly believe it.

"So you believe me, then?" he said.

"Well, it's kind of hard to deny it when it's in the papers." She said back, regaining her confidence with a small sigh. She was relieved that he was talking at all. "Why don't you tell me about your dream again."

He sniffed, wrinkling his nose and grimacing, and handed the paper back to her.

"I don't feel like it." His voice was sharper than normal. She had clearly struck a chord with him.

_Well great_, she thought bitterly. _There goes our whole session down the drain. It's going to be a long two hours…_

He had rolled back onto the couch in his usual position and folded his hands over his stomach. She was preparing herself for the uncomfortable silence that was sure to follow when he cleared his throat.

"ehm…" he paused, licking his bottom lip, pulling it in between his teeth. "I don't really remember anything about that day…"

He told her everything. Everything he could remember. It just flooded out of his mouth before he could stop it. He wasn't even sure why he was telling her. It was far more amusing and time consuming to tell her complete lies. It drew the attention away from what she was trying to get at and let him live another day in his fantasy world.

He told her he was tired of working for the mob, tired of being their lackey and hit man. He knew the only way out was to die. It was what he wanted. He told her he planted the idea into his peer's minds, and simply waited until it reached the man in charge.

He told her he wasn't afraid that night. He hadn't been.

He told her how he didn't feel a thing. It was like he had been bled of all of his emotions. He was so tired of what he'd done with his life and couldn't bear it any longer. His name was as good as mud.

He told her he was responsible for the end of so many innocent people's lives. No, not he… what he used to be. The old him. The Joker knew the man laying on the couch today was not the same man who was beaten and cut and left to die.

He told her he couldn't really remember what it felt like to be human anymore. It seemed like a confession after a while. He admitted he felt no remorse, that what used to prevent him from acting like an animal, what stopped him from cracking someone else's head with a rock, was no longer there. She shivered when he laughed at the thought. He said he felt more like an animal than human, and that he was convinced he wasn't human anymore.

He told her that he could hardly remember being cut. He remembered little snippets and fragments of moments. He remembered the lights behind the men… shadows… limbs failing as he was being beaten.

And he told her again how he hated the ointment they used on his face. He swallowed hard to try and stop the words from escaping, but couldn't seem to keep a grip on them. They slid out past gritted teeth, snaked away from his tongue in what couldn't have been more than a whisper at times. He closed his eyes, finally succumbing to it, and let the words go. Every moment he could remember, any detail or emotion, any feeling or thought that came to mind, he told her.

He was afraid to look at her now. He felt bare and vulnerable and stupid.

And finally, when he felt emptied of thoughts, he stopped. The sound of her pen furiously scribbling on paper filled the silence, and he braved a look at her. Her hair was in her face, and she had obviously given up on pushing it away. Her brow was furrowed with concentration, and her hand was quivering as she wrote.

She was in shock that he had opened up. A small creeping suspicion was at the back of her mind that this was just another story. There was no way he trusted her enough to actually tell her the truth. A truth besides a horribly gruesome retelling of one of his many tortures or murders.

She peered up at him from underneath her blond bangs, and finally pushed them aside, clearing her field of vision. She studied his face for a moment, a slight frown pulling at her mouth.

"Do you believe me still, doc?" he said, almost guiltily.

"Yes." She nodded once at him, looking him square in the eye. "Thank you."

"For what?" he snorted, rolling his head back and staring at the ceiling.

"For telling me."

For telling her? He frowned and crossed his arms across his chest. He hated her at that moment. Truly hated her. Not just the usual hate he had for anyone who was unlucky enough to be stuck in the same room as him. She was the only person who knew anything about him.

He looked back at her, the lines on his face deeper than she remembered. He looked old, tired, defeated. He didn't say anything for a while, just looked at her. She felt her stomach flip, knowing a pink stain quickly would spread across her cheeks. She jumped as a loud knock on the door yanked her out of thought.

Clearing her throat, she smoothed the hair out of her face once again and glanced at the clock.

"It's been a nice _chat_, doc." He said, his voice hinting at a warning.

She watched him be led out of the room by the guards, and leaned back in her chair. Her clipboard sat in her lap, his file peeking out from underneath.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: I really do hope you enjoy my interpretation of the Joker here, and how he truly is. And if you don't, I won't take it personally. But I do, however, feel it was very necessary to create the romance I am building on, so please bear with me here if you don't like the idea of him as a traumatized man instead of a sociopath.

And to the few of you really reading this, I would like to say Thank you. Thanks for the support, as silent as it is, and I hope you continue to read.

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><p>She could hardly believe it. He had actually opened up. It was the miraculous breakthrough she had been working on for… months, years! It was the thing all of her colleagues had hoped for. She could write books about it. She would be a household name: Harleen Quinzel, the woman who solved the Joker.<p>

She could retire early.

She sat staring down at her clipboard, littered in notes. She could hardly read half of them. She had written them down so quickly, with such excitement. Her hands were still quivering. She stood quickly, holding her clipboard close to her chest, and took two steps forward, unsure of where she should go or who she should tell.

She spun on her heel, walked behind her desk and sat, spreading her notes, his file, and the newspaper article across the entirety of it. She took a fresh piece of paper from a drawer and set it in the middle, grabbing a pen and quickly beginning to write.

If what he told her was true—she felt the breath leave her lungs. Then he was within the range of help.

She sat and thought long and hard about what he told her, looking back on her notes, flipping through pages and pages of information on him from his file.

He felt _guilt_. He had truly felt remorse at some point in his life and that meant…

_The Joker is not a textbook case sociopath_. She wrote slowly, so as to control her excitement. _Exhibits true remorse in regards to his past. Revealed in therapy how he received scars, backed by newspaper article from that year. Medical records yet to be pulled from hospitals. Expressed regret, but unwilling to share about what._

_Theory: assassinated someone close to him, traumatized. Couldn't bear guilt. Told peers he wanted out so he could be killed. Received scars, left to die. Didn't die. Traumatized as result of continuing life._

Harleen paused, closing her eyes and rocking back in her chair. If what she was hypothesizing was true, it would mean that the man beneath the scars, the person behind the makeup and the violence was truly a man. Someone who could be helped.

She pressed her pen to the paper again and continued to write.

_Patient suffering from extreme case of PTSD and disassociation as a coping method for traumas._

She lifted the pen from the paper, looking down at it almost in disbelief. Disassociation is an entirely treatable condition. With intensive therapy, he could be lead through the traumatic events, and eventually face them, and come out the other side relatively normal. He could be reintroduced to society.

She felt her heart skip a beat.

If she was the therapist responsible for such remarkable treatment…

It all began to fall into place for her. _The Joker_ was simply a shell to hide behind. The man, whoever he may be, behind the monster was clearly unable to handle the distressing experiences and was trying to cope with it as best as possible. But what could be so traumatizing that it would cause a perfectly normal man to become a mockingbird to a sociopath?

She wondered if the man behind the mask was even still there. Or if this was truly a case of dissociative identity disorder – one that couldn't be reversed. She closed her eyes and willed that thought to leave her head. Nothing could be worse than trying to help someone that didn't want help. She couldn't fix him if he himself didn't believe he was broken.

Perhaps receiving the scars was what set him off, she thought. Perhaps, all this time, it was the actually act of being beaten, disfigured, and left to die that destroyed the fragile man. And when death didn't relieve the burden of his pain, the overwhelming, all consuming weight of his guilt… maybe that's what set him off.

She thought how hard it must have been for him to not have died, and wondered why he hadn't just killed himself to end the misery. She felt silly when she remembered he must have been in the hospital for at least a month, and then under close supervision for a good year after to make sure he was healing properly.

There would have been virtually no way for him to have killed himself under that scrutinizing of care.

She looked up from her papers, and stared across the room to the couch where, only minutes ago, he had been lounging. She could still see him stretched over the furniture, the line of his body long and lean. She could still see his curly, messy hair wildly laying over the top of his head, or how casually he linked his fingers over his stomach.

And suddenly, in her mind's eye, he didn't seem so strange to her. He no longer looked like a monster with sharp teeth and black eyes. He looked sad, vulnerable… he was putting up a brilliantly crafted front, one he had obviously been perfecting for years.

Instead of just dealing with his pain, he created for himself someone to hide behind, someone who didn't feel remorse, who wasn't weighed down by guilt or pain. He created a genius monster, one who simply wanted to forget everything that caused him pain.

This monster mimicked a man without feelings to a t.

Harleen's head felt light at the idea. She had been approaching him all wrong this whole time. Instead of trying to face _The Joker_ head on, she should have been trying to face the man behind him. If only she could find out who that man was. He had never given her even a clue to what his name really was, and she knew it was going to be nearly impossible to find his identity.

Her heart sank.

If he couldn't give her an idea of who he really was, there was no way she could reach the man inside of him, and pull him out of the blackness.

_Created alternative identity – The Joker – to deal with trauma. Created without capability to feel remorse from actions in order to deal with his own underlying guilt._

So that was it. He had done something that made him feel so awful, something he couldn't deal with any longer, that he would rather have died than live with the feeling. And when he didn't die, he had to create a block for the feelings: he had to create the Joker to survive psychologically. Her hand began to quiver more violently, and she set the pen down. Harleen could hear her heartbeat in her ears, drumming loud and quickly.

She slowly lifted the receiver from her telephone and pressed a couple numbers.

It rang and the familiar voice of the head of Arkham picked up.

"Yes?"

"Doctor…" she said breathlessly. "We've made a breakthrough…"


	5. Chapter 5

Author's note: Ahhhhh, and here's the romance. A little bit of a let down, I'm sure you'll be thinking, but I do enjoy me some good ol' fashion character development. We're almost there, guys! And remember to review! 3

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><p>Their next session together, he seemed… human suddenly. He seemed less imposing and foreign to her than he had ever appeared before. She felt more comfortable near him, as if he wasn't going to grow fangs and take a chunk of her flesh out with his teeth.<p>

He seemed handsome, even.

She caught herself staring at him when he talked. He was telling another lie. She could tell, because he was the most animated. He looked alive when he lied, that and when he was excited, or explaining a complicated thing, such as the composition of a pipe bomb. He was lounging on the couch, as usual, but his arms were tensed, his hands moving with what could have been a life of their own. He was handcuffed for her safety, but that hardly seemed to stop him from moving about. Maybe he was doing it just to hear the obnoxious sound of metal clanging, or maybe he was doing it to keep himself amused. She didn't know, nor did she care.

She was simply looking at him, at how strongly made his muscles were, and how the scars on the skin of his arms glistened in the light of her office.

She had it stuck in her head, then, that he could be fixed. It gave her hope. When she felt their sessions weren't going anywhere, that they had reached a wall and he refused to talk, she reminded herself of that little glimmering truth.

_He could be fixed. He is human after all._

And suddenly it felt like falling. She felt as if she was slipping away through black nothingness every time she looked at him. He seemed alluring in a way he had never seemed before. He seemed… Approachable. With emotions and feelings and things that stopped him from mutiny. She knew, though, logically, that these things weren't true. He committed heartless crimes.

But that little girlish voice in the back of her head never stopped squeaking

_He could be fixed. He is human after all._

And the debates with her colleagues didn't help one bit. Once she had fully conceived the idea, and explained it to the head of Arkham, all of her coworkers wanted to know. They all wanted a piece of the proverbial pie.

Someone would say to her "That's not possible! He's a classic sociopathic case! He can't be fixed, you know that. That's practically the first thing they teach you in school."

And she would have to defend him, prove to them that somewhere deep down inside of him was a hurt man, someone who needed true love and comfort and kindness. Someone who needed a strong hand to guide him through the trauma so he could be led back to reality.

And every time she explained it to them, it sunk a little deeper in her brain.

Before she knew it, he appeared no more appalling than any other man on the street. She found it hard to stop herself from thinking of him that way. She was a professional, and professionals do not think of their patients in such a way.

But she just couldn't help herself.

And so, there she was, sitting in her chair, observing him stretched across her couch, when it fully hit her. She felt the wind seep out from her lungs, and she felt empty and cold inside.

_I think I might love this man…_

The emptiness feeling quickly filled, like rushing water, with warmth that spread through her face and limbs and whole body. She felt overcome with butterflies and nerves and she had to clear her throat to keep from gasping.

He wasn't saying anything. He rolled his head to look at her, his dark eyes piercing the façade she was wearing. He looked quizzical for a moment, scanning her face with his gaze.

How could she have let herself get so far into this? How could she have put her professionalism aside and allow herself to fall for a patient. She pressed her hand to her chest, felt her heart beating viciously, felt the air flowing in and out of her lungs.

She needed something familiar and strong to remind her of who she really was: she was going to be the world's greatest therapist. She was going to be the woman responsible for solving this puzzle in front of her. She was practically there.

He was _fixable_.

He was _human_.

And she tried so very hard not to let it show. She tried to calm her nerves when he entered the room, tried not to blush or allow words to escape her. But he seemed so… attractive now. Now that the title of sociopath had been stripped of his person, he seemed as if he could be someone a woman could truly fall for.

And she was afraid that she had.

She was afraid she had allowed herself to fall for this man who in reality didn't show emotions such as love or regret. She couldn't allow herself to: she had fallen for the man beneath the monster. She had fallen in love with the idea of him as broken, but very fixable, man.

And it felt like falling. Effortlessly drifting deeper into the bottomless, black sea of the idea she had created. She felt control slipping away more and more every time she saw him. She caught herself thinking of him, wondering how he was doing, what he was doing, what he was thinking…

And then reality would snap her back, and he would be sitting square in front of her, looking innocent, having just asked a question. He would have a look of concern on his face when she didn't answer immediately, and that's what she could come back to.

And she would find herself spluttering, shuffling her papers, fixing her hair to cover up her embarrassment.

How had she allowed herself to sink so deep in this. And now there was no way to come back. There was no coming back from falling for this man. He would either swallow her up entirely, or murder her. It was a useless battle to try and stop it. And before she knew it, she wasn't fighting anymore.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: You all have been waiting so patiently for it, and HERE IT IS! The romance. This is probably the only "fluffy" part in the entire story, so please enjoy it. I don't think I'll ever have the chops to write more light-hearted romance. It isn't my thing to write.

Anyways, I was going to wait a couple more days to post it, but I just couldn't! I hope you enjoy it, and REMEMBER to review! 3

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><p>"When was the last time you cried?" Harleen asked, her voice soft and delicate around such sharp words.<p>

The Joker seemed slightly caught off guard by the question, and allowed his face to express the surprise he felt. "Well, my eyes started tearing this morning at the smell of the cafeteria food, if that's what you mean…" he shot back.

"No, Mr. J, I mean, when was the last time you _cried_. Out of sadness, joy, anger…?"

"Ah!" He said, feigning a sudden realization. "Well, Doc, I don't rightly know the answer to that…" He rolled his head from side to side as if settling into the couch, and linked his fingers together over his stomach. "When was the last time _you_ cried? Hmmm?" He peeked at her out of the corner of his eye, smiling inwardly when he caught the look of embarrassment flash across her face.

"I would have to say… about three days ago." She replied, pressing the tip of her pen to her bottom lip. "I stubbed my toe pretty hard coming up the stairs to my apartment and it hurt so bad I cried a little."

He chuckled at the idea. "You know, there are things way more painful than stubbing a toe that most normal people never shed a tear over." He said darkly, the laughter still lingering on his tongue.

"Did you cry when you got your scars?"

She wasn't beating around the bush, and that annoyed him. Normally, she danced about a subject for what seemed like hours, and he played along, pretending to be unaware of what she was trying to get at. But ever since what he could only describe as _word vomit_, she didn't bother playing the game anymore. And that annoyed him.

He shrugged at her. Inwardly, he knew he must have cried, but he couldn't remember. "I remember screaming, if that's what you mean. But –no." he smacked his lips, shaking his head slightly and looking up at the ceiling. "I don't remember _tears_."

"Well, have you cried within the last month, then?" She looked sincerely at him, her large blue eyes admiring the structure of his face.

"I can't say I have." He purred, his voice high pitched and lilting.

She pursed her lips, jotting a couple things down on her piece of paper. This wasn't going as well today as she had hoped. He was talking, sure – that in and of itself was a miracle in comparison to how little he talked to other therapists – but it wasn't going anywhere.

She let a couple moments pass and collected her thoughts.

"Well, let's talk about something more interesting then, shall we?" She uncrossed her legs and shifted in her seat, leaning against the armrest. Her elbow was propping her up, her shoulder pushed up and head cocked to the one side.

"What did you have in mind, Doc?" the last syllable of the word stuck on his tongue, like a clicking noise, and he found it difficult not to repeat the motion with his tongue silently.

She shrugged slightly and glanced around the room. "When you were younger, did you feel you had a normal adolescence?"

He groaned out loud and lifted his cuffed hands. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubbed them.

She laughed in response, amused by his reaction. "Okay okay… Jeeze! What I mean, is…did you do all the things typical teenagers do?"

Another sound of despair emitted from the Joker, and he slowly began to drop his fist against his brow, right between his eyes. It made a dull thudding noise.

"Gosh! I mean, did you go to school? Were you in sports? What types of friends did you have?" She was floundering. He was continuing to pound his fist against his forehead.

"It isn't like I'm pulling teeth, here!" She cried, huffing a little bit to try and get his attention.

"It isn't like you picked a topic that's _actually_ interesting." He complained back.

"Well, _did_ you have a typical adolescence? Did you date?" She was persistent this time, determined to get him to answer a real question.

His ears perked up at the question, only a slight hiccough in his rhythm shown as a sign of his interest. Finally, he let his arms fall back into place over his stomach.

"I see how this is." He purred. "You're trying to see if girls ruined my life."

"Or boys. I'm not here to judge." She shot back, settling in her chair with confidence. He wasn't going to shake her up today. She wasn't going to let him.

His face screwed up into a sort of amused frown. "You're being awfully quick today."

"And you're dodging my questions. Don't make me write an assumption on this paper." She threatened, holding her pen just above her paper. He looked over at her, annoyed, to see her face in a stern pea-hen sort of expression: eyebrows raised, frown pulling at the corners of her lips, eyes wide.

He rolled his eyes, frowning back at her. "Write whatever you'd damn well please." He grumbled, turning back to stare at the ceiling.

She dropped her expression and folded her arms over her clipboard. "Is there something troubling you? I thought we had a pretty good back-and-forth going there."

He didn't respond. He didn't even shift on the couch.

"Mr. Joker. Did you date as a teenager?" She wasn't joking anymore. There was a slight hint of concern in her inflection.

"I was never really the _pretty boy_." He said back after a few tense moments. "Girls didn't like me." He pulled his upper lip back as he said it, as if he didn't want to words to stain his lips.

"Why do you say that?" She uncrossed her arm and readied her pen. Hopefully he'd give a good response.

He shot her a look that said "Seriously?" and sighed, shaking his head. "I was never what you'd consider to be… attractive."

She frowned at his words, and tried to hold back a snort of disapproval. It turned into a scoff, and she found herself blushing madly when he looked over at her sharply. "Well…" she swallowed, her face turning even redder. "That's just silly."

He raised an eyebrow, skeptical of her proclamation of it being silly.

She swallowed again, wishing she hadn't made a peep in the first place.

"What I mean to say is—" she began. He cut her off before she could finish her sentence, which she was silently thankful for.

"You think I'm attractive." He stated.

Her eyes widened slightly and she felt the blood rush to her head. She must have been scarlet by now.

He frowned back at her, sitting up slowly on the couch. He swung his legs off and softly placed his feet on the floor. He clasped his hands together between his legs, letting them fall lazily.

He chose his words carefully, tilting his head down to catch the light just right on his face. "I don't think I'm attractive." He jerked his thumbs up towards his face. "How could I with these."

She shook her head, hooking her pen to the clipboard. "Did you think you were attractive before you got the scars?" She asked, trying hard to regain control of the situation.

And for once, she saw the blood drain from his face, and then fill again with pink. He looked to the side, slowly turning his face away from her. She gave him a moment, and when he didn't respond, she continued.

"Do you think you're ugly?"

"Ugly is an ugly word." He croaked back, looking back at her. He held her gaze, bold yet slightly uneasy. No one but her had the guts to talk to him like this. He'd have to beat it out of her one of these days. He hated how cocky she'd become.

Harleen quickly moved to his side, sitting firmly next to him on the couch, and took his shackled hands in her own. She looked down, surprised at just how large his hands truly were, especially in comparison to hers. Hers looked like child's hands: small and fragile.

"Now, if you don't believe a single thing I ever tell you, believe this." She swallowed hard against the butterflies in her stomach, and looked up at him through her lashes, her head still tipped down towards their intertwined hands. "You are a beautiful man. You are worth so much more than you'll ever believe."

The words fluttered out in almost a whisper. They were handled with such care by her breath, her teeth and tongue and lips.

He looked at her face, flushed pink from embarrassment and sincerity. She was more beautiful up close than he had ever imagined. She looked like an angel, the way her blonde hair floated down in front of her eyes. Her mouth looked delicate: fresh and pink and inviting. He felt something stir inside of him, unsettling his usual brooding thoughts. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he knew he had felt it before... long ago...

He found it hard not to lean forward and capture that mouth of hers with his own.

The thought occurred to him afterwards. He realized he was kissing her long after it began. At first, his mouth pressed against hers in an innocent manner, no movement or sounds of protest occurred. They were both stunned; her because she had never expected such tender behavior from this man, and him because he thought he had better impulse control. He didn't know what he was doing or why. All he knew was that the way her soft lips felt against his was overwhelmingly satisfying.

She moved her hands away from his, letting them fall into his lap again, and reached her hands up to his face, cupping his cheeks with them. His scars were smoother than she had thought they'd be. She had always imagined them to be rough and calloused.

She pressed her lips against his firmly but gently, then slowly pulled his face away. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes looked a little watery. She held her breath, her lips pressed firmly together in disapproving manner.

He felt his stomach drop, feeling silly for having done it in the first place.

"That isn't appropriate behavior." She breathed, still holding his face affectionately between her hands. "I'm going to have to ask you to go back to your cell for the afternoon. Our session is over."

She didn't move away from him, though. She sat looking into his eyes: A deep green with a blooming center of light brown. They were freckled with gold. His face was littered with more scars than she had thought. He seemed like an entirely different person up close. He seemed harsh to look at, but charming somehow. Like a sailor who came back from sea, full of stories and scars and the smell of salt water.

He smelt like adventure to her. He smelt daring and thrilling to be around. And before she knew it, she was pressing her lips to his again. She was relishing the texture of his scars against her mouth, and allowed her tongue to dart out and run along the length of his bottom lip tentatively.

She felt him move, lift both hands to her chin, and hold her there.

She lost herself in his kiss, swallowed entirely by the feeling of his lips against hers, the hot bite of his teeth and tongue and hands. She moved her hands into his hair, entangling them in his curls. Her breath became uneven and loud as she scooted closer to him on the couch. _Their_ couch.

And right when she thought there was no return, that she was done for and ready to give herself up to the splendor of his darkness, he pulled away. His eyes were burning and he kept his face near hers.

"I'll see you next time." He purred, low and smooth.

He slowly stood, forcing her hands away from him, and prowled to the door. She stood, shakily, and walked to her desk. She picked up the phone and called for a guard to escort him back to his cell. He looked over his shoulder at her, his eyes still smoldering, and allowed himself to be led away.

She sunk into the chair behind her desk and pressed her cool fingertips to her face, trying to smooth away the worry from her mind. What had she done? Had she really fallen so far from professional and _kissed_ her patient?

And more importantly, had she really fallen for him?

_He is fixable. He is human…_ She told herself.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: Whew! Sorry this one took so long. I had a huuuuge paper to do for a psychology class and it took priority over my work here. Fortunately, I am finished with that paper and was able to do a little editing on this chapter. If you're confused in the beginning here, don't worry, it'll explain itself before the end. I had to take the last few chapters to explain the complexity between the romance behind these two love-birds so the rest of the plot could shine. And I'm _really_ looking forward to finishing this story within the next couple of months.

Enjoy, and remember to review!_  
><em>

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><p><em>He saw hands swinging, men looming, shadows… the ceiling light blinded him. He closed his eyes, unable to hold them open any longer. He felt the life draining out of him… felt the world becoming distant. He couldn't feel the fists anymore… <em>

_He felt his lungs fill with cold air, felt the searing pain in his face, his warm blood slowly trickling down his face, heard the dull smack of flesh on flesh… He felt it was harder and harder to defend himself, to hold his arms out in front of him, to kick and scream and push with all of his might…_

_Jack stopped his fight, bowed to the black that was swallowing him whole, and submitted to its will. It felt like floating, like sinking deep into water. _

_The pressure in his ears was enormous, it filled his mind with sound, coursed through his brain and shocked his whole being. He thought his head would burst. __Darkness fell in from every side, a sphere of singing black. And when he was nothing, compressed at the heart of all that dark, there came a point where the dark could be no more, and something tore._

_He felt himself falling away from the shell of his body that he had come to know. His muscles and skin and bones seemed to melt away as he dissolved into the blackness inside. His humanity slipped from his grasp, and he felt oddly amused by it. His fingers could no longer hold what tied him to decency… What should be making him panic and scramble – it wasn't. He seemed hardly concerned._

_In fact, it _seemed awfully funny to him.

_Laughter began to bubble from his throat, popping through the air and bursting. It started with a low chuckle, and swelled into a tremendous sound that filled his mind, filled the room. He was laughing. Laughing louder and harder than he had ever before. He was covered in sweat, his vision blurry, his face on fire…_

_He sat up, felt the cold steel of the knife against the palm of his hand, gripped it tight. He felt his skin split and tore the knife away from its owner. His laughter continued all the while, dark and loud and haunting. The men began to back away, stirring out of their mob mentality at the sound of his voice. He rolled onto his side, flipping the knife in his hand to hold it correctly, clutched at his ribs, and slowly lifted himself onto all fours. He reached up and touched his face, felt the gaping hole where his mouth was…_

_His stomach should have turned._

_It didn't. He continued to giggle, eyebrows turned up in a concerned, panicked way… He rose, brilliant and beaten and like a monster, and turned, faced the men before him, his smile carved in, now, on his face. The laughter was hollow, meaningless… His mind swirled…_

_He watched the men fall, watched them become hollow, empty shells where their insides should have been. He felt nothing: no pain or fear or remorse. He felt powerful. Unstoppable. Alien._

_He sucked in air, felt his chest swell, felt his lungs fill… and swallowed whatever previous part of him existed. He buried it deep inside: down past the pain and memory… he hid it behind the scars and bruises and broken bones. He took a step, surfaced as a new man from the blackness he felt below._

_No, not man. Monster._

The Joker sprang up in bed, cursing and sweating, and threw the sheets from himself, startled and eyes still swimming with sleep. His hands shook and he stumbled away from his bed, reaching for a wall or dresser to steady himself on. He leaned against it, pressed his face against the cool plaster.

His heart was pounding in his ears and he felt… distressed. He opened and closed his eyes, forcing the images away, pushed the feeling down and slowly sunk to the floor, he head still resting against the wall.

He heard Harley stirring in bed, and closed his eyes, sighed, held his breath, prayed she'd fall back asleep…

"Puddin'?" she called, rolling towards where he should have been laying. She felt about, and didn't find him. She sat up quickly, rubbed her eyes awake and spotted him ten feet away, practically huddled on the floor.

Her heart dropped and she crawled out of bed with as much urgency as she could muster.

"What's the matter? Why're you all the way over here? Did you have a bad dream?" She cooed, petting his hair and face and cheek. He pushed her hands away, not wanting her fingers to touch him. His scars felt sore, like he was back in the hospital, like he was still healing from them.

He curled his mouth into a frown, wrinkled his nose, and practically snarled at her to go back to bed. She didn't. She sat next to him, eyes barely open, and continued on and on about how she loved him.

The anger swelled inside of him and he found himself swinging a fist at her, pushing and kicking and forcing her away. He yelled and screamed and cursed and fought. She wailed back, defended herself from his blows, tried to catch his hands before they hit her, tried to crawl away as fast as she could.

He felt himself breaking. He felt cracked right down the middle and barely able to keep his pieces together. He swung with fury, with hatred, fists landing on her. She finally caught one of his hands between both of her own, and was hauled back when he recoiled to swing again. She hung on for dear life and he felt himself collapse, break down on top of her. They tumbled on the floor, sweating, bruised… She was crying.

Her tears stained her face and he could see them even in their dimly lit room. She was saying how sorry she was… he couldn't make out the rest. He finally opened his eyes, really opened them, shook the sleep from them and saw her curled beneath him. He was shaking, pushed both hands against the hard floor and heaved himself away from her. He stood, feeling as if his feet might give way beneath him and it finally all bubbled over.

It felt like that hollow laughter all over again. It felt uncontrollable and overflowing, like it came boiling from his stomach and rolled out of his mouth. He thought he might have been smiling, but he knew better… His mouth was opened, his face scrunched up, and he lifted his hands to his face. It was wet… warm, sweating…

He felt the tears seep from his eyes, roll down his cheeks, hit his hands… He stumbled towards the window, sunk down to his knees, and felt a sob shake his whole being.

Harley was instantly at his side, arms wrapped out him, showering him with kisses, wiping his face, petting his hair. She had no idea what was wrong… Never before had she seen this man break down and cry. His shoulders lurched and he leaned forward into her arms, falling against her. His fingers reached out, threaded through her hair, and pulled her closer.

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><p>The sun began to creep into view, pushing the dull grey color from the sky and replacing it with pastels. Harley sighed and smoothed the hair on the side of the Joker's head, turning her face to look out the window. He was curled in the bed, tucked under the blanket next to her. She was sitting next to him, one arm loosely hung above his head resting against the pillow.<p>

He had finally fallen back asleep.

The sky was too colorful for her. It was lovely, alive and bright. It looked soft. It left a bitter taste in her mouth in respect to what had just happened. She wasn't sure what had unsettled him. She closed her eyes, felt the fatigue pull at the lines on her face. She felt worn just at the thought of it all.

It had been at least two years since they escaped together. It might have been more, but time seemed to blend together when she was with him. Days melted into days… weeks into weeks… She might have lost a month or two somewhere in there. She wasn't ever sure anymore. And in all of that time together, she never saw him cry. She had forgotten he was capable of such a thing.

And what was bothering him most was that she couldn't figure out what was upsetting him. She knew she should know why, like it was a distant memory…


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: Man this is a long chapter. Nearly 3,000 words. Anyways, we're getting back to the main plot of the story: the Joker's revenge for his scars. And with a little help from Harley, will he follow through?

I felt the last few chapters, focusing mainly on building the relationship between these two, was entirely necessary. Without them, there would only be a shell of a relationship to base all of this on. If she didn't truly love the broken man inside of him, Harley wouldn't still be with the Joker. And she was reminded of this love for him after watching him wake from the nightmare about his scars.

Of course, this kicked her off into therapist mode, and now she has to finish what she started over 2 yeas ago.

Enjoy this chapter, and remember to review. I definitely enjoy them, even when they're telling me how awful my stories are.

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><p>She made the decision that night to figure out the whole mess for once and for all. She had drove herself into madness in her professional days trying to solve the man she loved, and she was determined to finally do it. If she had slipped so far from where she began just for him, the least she could do was finally nail the coffin shut on it. And the only way to finish this was to find the man responsible for the scars the Joker bore.<p>

Her stomach did a tiny flip at the thought of finally completing what she had begun. Finally being able to solve him, help him through it all, and present him as an acceptable member of society. She could come out of hiding, and would no longer be branded as a villain, but as a radical therapist.

She sighed, smoothing her hair back into a bun at the back of her head. It was the small hope that kept her going in times like this. Times when she was afraid of what was going on in the Joker's mind. Times when she was wary and tired of being so strong for him.

She secured a dark-colored wig over her hair, tucking the last few strands of blonde away and settled a pair of large glasses over her nose. It was an effective disguise. She slipped her arms through the sleeves of a large coat and buttoned it up.

The cool night air bit at her legs when she stepped outside. She was careful to shut the door behind her quietly, and quickly hurried away from the building that they had been hiding in for the last couple months. She didn't want to be seen or recognized. If she was, the whole plan would be ruined and she would land herself in a jail cell deep inside the bowels of Arkham.

She smiled bitterly to herself. That was exactly where she was headed. When breaking into the Gotham Police Department to steal her lover's criminal files proved to be a dead end, Harley had to think up the next best option. And unfortunately, it meant heading back to the place they had met, and the place she would be calling home if she got caught.

She boarded the subway without much trouble. She rode across town, quietly tucked away in a corner seat. She pretended to read a newspaper as the car rocked her back and forth. The familiar garbled noise of the conductor cracked through now and again and shook her from her concentration. Finally, when the screeching breaks signaled _her_ stop, she rose and exited the train.

The cold air greeted her again when she emerged onto the streets. It seemed practically abandoned at this time in the evening. She was waiting for the comedic tumbleweed to roll past as she walked down the street towards the piers. Harley knew she would have to get the security badge of someone who worked at the asylum before she could even get on the ferry. Not because they checked, but because she would have to be able to get past security checks once inside.

Not very many patients there had visitors, so she couldn't pose as one. And they would be looking for her if she tried to use her old badge.

She skulked around the edges of the pier, the familiar stink of water filling her nostrils. It had been years since she'd been here, but it seemed as if nothing had changed. The ferry slowly crept up the docks, creaking and groaning as it finally docked. A small group exited, huddled and well-dressed for the cool night air. Harley slipped in with them, following the flock as they branched off to their separate directions.

One young lady in particular, who had been silly enough to drive her own car, was the object of Harley's attention. Keeping an acceptable distance between her and this woman, Harley followed her to her car and finally got her attention.

"Excuse me! Could you give me some help?" Harley asked, pushing the fake glasses up the bridge of her nose. The woman turned and looked at her, her expression warming when she finally observed who was calling after her.

"Yes, what do you need?"

"I'm trying to find the ferry for Arkham? I'm supposed to start there tonight and I'm new to the city…" Harley trotted over to her, holding a couple papers in her hand, pretending they were directions of some sort.

The woman greeted the remark with a worn smile, and held her hand out as if asking to read the papers herself. However, as soon as Harley was close enough, she reached within her large coat and pulled out a pistol, pointing it towards the woman with a smile.

"If you're smart, lady, you'll hand over your I.D." she said coolly, closing the distance between the two of them quickly. "And you won't make a peep."

The woman's eyes bulged in surprise, her hands beginning to quiver. Her voice was cracking as she tried to sound out some sort of plea. Some sort of "Don't hurt me, take my purse, I'll give you whatever." She pulled her badge from her coat pocket and held it towards Harley, her mouth hanging open slightly in terror.

Harley took the badge and pocketed it without a word. She didn't put away her weapon, but aimed it at the ground, and took another step towards to the woman. She pulled the trigger and a hissing sound emitted from the gun as a lavender colored gas seeped out. Harley covered her mouth with a handkerchief and took a couple steps back, watching as the woman's eyes slowly drooped. She left as soon as the woman sunk to the ground, eyes closed.

Nothing was more effective than knock-out gas for a silent entrance or getaway.

She jogged away, towards the ferry and crossed the pier without much attention towards her. She felt the familiar creek of the wood beneath her feet, accompanied by the low moan of the wood bending beneath her. She crossed the threshold of the large boat and settled herself towards the back, open to the night air.

Harley took a deep breath in, letting it fill her deep past her lungs. Her cheeks flushed, and her heart began to pick up in pace. The thrill to be heading back was enough to get her adrenaline flowing. But the threat of being caught on top of it… Harley had always been an exhibitionist or sorts.

She ran through in her mind once more the layout of the asylum, trying hard to remember each security checkpoint, where each guard was posted, where nurses weren't allowed… she closed her eyes, held the breath in her lungs, and counted again how many people she would have to pass to get where she needed to be: the records room.

"Well hello, lovely. Are you new here?" A deep voice broke through her thoughts and Harley found herself turning with a sharp look to the owner. She kept herself from scowling when she saw a short, thickly-set man standing a few feet from her. He was leaning against the railing of the ferry, trying to seem casual in the most posed stance he could have thought of.

She greeted him with a sweet smile, dreading the dull conversation that would follow. "Yeah, is it that obvious?" She said, looking sheepishly down at her feet.

He chuckled, sauntering over to her. "A little."

She wrinkled her nose at him, smiling all the wider. _Shmooze, Harls…_ she thought to herself. _It'll all be worth it in the end. And who knows, maybe he can help you out…_

"Did you just start here?" He asked, settling next to her against the railing.

"Today's my first day on the job. I was hoping no one would notice. I heard it was dangerous if the patients could tell you were weak." She brushed some loose hair out of her face, looking up at the stranger with the largest, pathetic eyes she could master. She felt like hurling at the idea of flirting with this chump… but she didn't need to draw any undue attention to herself.

"Oh sure they can." He nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. "But just stick near me. I won't let them bother ya."

She smiled, trying hard to look embarrassed for him.

The ferry pulled up to dock, slowing enough that Harley could hear the water slapped against the cold metal of the boat. She felt the ferry sway and lurch to a halt as it stopped against the wooden dock, groaning and creaking as it settled.

Harley looked to the man, gave him an anxious look, and he laughed back at her.

"Come on. I'll show ya the ropes." He said, holding his elbow out for her to grab. She placed her fingers in the crook of his arm and allowed him to lead her away.

The building was just as large and imposing as she remembered. No landscape beyond rocks were outside of the solid walls surrounding the asylum, and very little vegetation was within them.

They passed the iron-clad gate, showing I.D.'s to the guards, and crossed the large courtyard.

"So, what's your name?" She asked sweetly, peeking up at him through her unfamiliar dark hair.

"Roger." He replied, trying to sound gruff when he said it. She suppressed a snort of amusement. "And yours?" He asked back.

"Ah… Whitney…" She said, trying to remember the name on her badge.

"Really? You're the second one to start here in a couple months." He noted, and Harley cursed inwardly. She should have picked a different name to tell this idiot. He never would have known the difference.

"Huh, weird. I never really meet too many people with the same name as me… Odd…" She giggled nervously, fussing with the button on her coat. "Do you mind giving me a quick tour, Roger? I'll look awfully lost if I don't even know where the cafeteria is." She said it quickly, hoping she sounded a little desperate, and maybe even a bit like a floozy.

He beamed back at her, puffing his chest ever so slightly. "It'd be my pleasure."

Harley sighed in relief, and squeezed his elbow as they crossed the doors into the asylum.

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><p>Roger's short frame looked even smaller when he was curled up on the ground. His breath was steady and slow, his eyes closed. Harley thought he looked like he didn't have a care in the world. And that was a good thing, because when he woke up, he'd have a pretty big problem on his hands.<p>

She had taken his handcuffs, and secured him against a metal pipe that ran from the floor of the room to the ceiling, and had pulled his pants down around his ankles before giving him a dose of the same sleeping gas Whitney had been victim to.

She laughed out loud when she thought just how trusting people could be to total strangers.

Wiping his spit from his sloppy kisses from her face, Harley stepped over him, taking his baton, and crossed the records room. It was off-limits this time of night, but Roger, being the security guard he was, had keys to everything. She hoped his seniority would be affected when he was discovered, pants around his ankle, in a room he wasn't supposed to be in.

She slammed the side of one of the cabinets with the butt of the club, and was slightly put-off when it didn't immediately fly open. She gave it another good whack, and then a third, before standing frowning in front of it.

She'd have to take another approach to this.

She looked around the room for anything she could use as a crowbar, and settled on the thin, long belt buckle still dangling from Roger's pants. Her frown deepened a little as she pulled the belt from his pants and went at the cabinet again. She wedged the edge of the belt in between the frame and the door and pried the two apart. A loud crack sounded and the drawer opened a couple of inches. Harley opened the drawer and flipped quickly through the files, search for the name she remembered.

"_Doe, John. (The Joker)"_

She pulled the file and opened it, setting it down on the floor to read. The security lights through the windows served enough light for her to read and she quickly scanned pages upon pages of information. Check-in dates… never accompanied by check-out dates; Names of therapists… she saw her name flash past; medical records; criminal records…

She became frustrated and flipped past a couple of more pages to land on a sheet labeled "Associates".

It wasn't a very long list. Besides a couple dozen henchmen, whose names didn't have aliases next to them, her own criminal identity, and the few times he was known to pair with some other local _villains_ - the word sounded silly in her head - the Joker's list was practically empty.

Except for one name Harley had never seen before.

_Dmitri Jerkovic (Mob Affiliation)_

She felt her brow furrow, and closed the file, shoving it inside of her coat into one of the numerous, large pockets it had. She buttoned it closed, felt to make sure her wig was secured, and stepped over Roger on the way out.

She hurried for the exit, barely containing herself to a brisk walk. She exited the hall, up a couple flights of stairs, and then crossed through several hallways before finally making her way towards the main exit. She had ten minutes until the next ferry left, and she needed off this island before she was trapped here forever. She could only pretend to be Whitney for so long before someone who knew Whitney would get wise.

Or worse.

She could run into someone she knew.

Harley skipped a couple steps, pushing the doors open to the courtyard. She kept her head down, and slowed her pace as she crossed the square. The iron gate was only a few feet away now and she prayed she'd get past without incident. She showed her badge to a guard at the gate, thankful it was a different one than who had let her in. The last thing she needed was someone asking why she was leaving so soon.

She held her breath as the man inspected her badge, running through in her mind how she could take out three, fully-armed men and hijack the ferry. She glanced up, looking for the long-range shooters she knew patrolled the walls on the asylum. There were at least two she could see from here.

Harley looked past the guard in front of her, to the approaching boat, and noted yet another guard at the end of the dock.

That was six. She knew there were more, but she didn't know where.

And just when she was calculating just what flips and kicks and punches she would use to disarm the man in front of her, he handed her back the badge. She let the breath seep between her teeth and thanked him quietly, passing between the gated doors.

She boarded the ferry and headed back towards Gotham, back towards her life in hiding, and the man she loved.

Once she was safe on the subway on the way to the corner of the city she was living in, Harley pulled the file from her coat again and looked at it.

_Dmitri Jerkovic_. She racked her brain, trying hard to remember if she had ever heard the Joker mention his name before. She hadn't… she couldn't remember anyways. The years she had spent separated from society had robbed a lot of her memory from her. Maybe it was the explosions she was around often, or the thrill of being on the run from the law. More likely than not, it was just being around the man that caused her memory to fail. He didn't care for it when she spouted random knowledge about psychology, and so she had learned, through force, to stop.

But Dmitri Jerkovic? Besides the mob affiliation, she didn't know _who_ this man was. She could infer he was the man responsible for his disfiguring, but she wasn't sure. And she was going to have to find out who he was if she was going to be able to offer the Joker a means of revenge, some vengeance for his scars.

That was the only way all of this would end: his nightmares, their life in hiding, her name smeared as a criminal. Revenge was the only answer for _their_ happiness together. And she was determined to figure it out.


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: Sorry about such the long wait. I didn't realize just how busy I actually was until it all suddenly snuck up on me. ^_^;; Ce la vie.

Here we are, nearing the end of this story. There should be about 3, maybe 4 more chapters (at most) left to finish and wow! You've stuck in here the whole time with me. Congrats. And thank you. Thank you everyone for your support and the reviews, the viewings, everything. I truly truly appreciate it.

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><p>Harley didn't go home immediately. The subway ran a few full circles before she made up her mind where to head next. It wasn't very often she was able to sneak away from the hole-in-the-wall she was living in, and even rarer still was it that she could get away twice in a week for anything other than a job. So she'd have to figure out who this fellow was before she headed home.<p>

It was approaching 3 o'clock in the morning, and the temperature continued to fall. She knew she had under dressed to do what she needed, but what she was wearing would have to do.

The train car rattled to a stop about half a mile from the warehouse district, and Harley stood, placing the papers back inside her jacket. She glanced about, satisfied that the only people who saw her exit here were either too drunk to remember her face, or too strung out to care.

She didn't have to look too pretty to get the job done here, just conspicuous enough to get the cops' attention. She rolled the waistband of her skirt up, shortening the hem to mid-thigh and removed her fake glasses, tucking them away in her coat pocket.

Smoothing out her wig, Harley sighed deeply, knowing if her man could only see her now, he'd beat the silly idea right out of her.

Hooking, she found, was not as easy as it looked when one was wearing a large coat and had no high-heels. She wandered about the same 40 feet of sidewalk for over half an hour, blowing kisses and exposing as much flesh as she could without completely disrobing in the streets. She needed a quiet ride to the police station, so robbing a bank wasn't an option. They'd know who she was the moment the call could ring through.

Any mention of a female robbing, mugging, or assaulting, the cops would be all over her as Harley Quinn, the Joker's accomplice. But if just another young lady was found working the street corner… no one would even bat an eyelash twice at her.

Her breath curled around her face in slow moving, smoke-like clouds, eventually drifting away into the night sky. This was horribly boring.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Harley spotted a police car and quickly turned away, trying to act suspicious as the officer drove past. No more than 10 minutes later, he circled again, and Harley knew now would be the time to bite.

The first car that even looked like it might be stopping for her, she hurried up to, making sure her timing was just right. She needed this cop to see her and arrest her before she had to give this John a concussion. 50 bucks in her pocket was not worth her dignity.

And sure enough, as she leaned her elbows against the door frame and leaned in to talk to her customer, the police lights suddenly lit up the dark street, pulsing and flashing bright blue and red. Harley jumped back, feigning surprise and tried to "look cool".

Whatever story she'd give the officer would be garbage, and he'd know what she was up to: prostitution. It made her eyes roll.

30 minutes later she was in the back of the police car, large crocodile tears rolling down her cheeks, pitiful cries for mercy bubbling out of her mouth. The officer lectured her, told her there were better ways to make money, that there were ways to get out of the business.

"Whatever man has power over you, we can help." He said, glancing in the rear-view mirror to look at her, make-up smearing down her face.

"You don't understand." She whined back, knowing exactly what to say to earn this man's sympathy.

"Oh no, I understand. Things are hard. This is an easy way to make money. But you are a beautiful young woman with worth in society, and you don't need to be doing this. You know that. You know you can get out."

She sniffled, nodding her head yes and looked down at her feet. She had another ten minutes to get out of these handcuffs to take the police station by storm.

"After we get you through booking, I'll call a buddy of mine who has a program downstate. He'll be able to help. He'll get you out of this system and you'll be better off…" The officer pulled the car around the corner, the police station in sight and Harley quietly twisted her hands, wiggling and pulling until finally her one hand popped free from the cuffs.

She had learned that trick within the first year with the Joker. He had left her in cuffs for at least two days before she finally popped her hand free and came after him with a baseball bat, furious he had done it in the first place. Never again would she let him use cuffs when they played rough. Only ropes or handkerchiefs from then on. But it had taught her a valuable lesson: like a magician, she could get out of real police restraints without hardly making a noise.

She pulled her one arm under her side, flopping over as if in despair and pulled her pistol from her coat, letting out a loud sob before returning her arm to the proper position behind her back. It was brilliantly performed act.

The officer pulled his car through the gates to the police station, and got out of the vehicle, turning to open the back door. He was met with the barrel of the gun pointed between his eyes, no more than a few feet between him and sure death.

"I wouldn't do anything funny, officer. You've been awfully nice to me, but I can't have you reaching for your weapon." She warned, her accent rolling from her tongue.

He froze in front of her, the thought of quickly reaching for his gun clearly flashing across his face. She shook her head, cocking her weapon, and slowly crawling from the car.

She got out and he backed up, hands held up in front of him.

"Get in the car." She said, moving away so he could get in. He complied, face wrinkled into a furious expression. "Lay face down." He did.

She reached in after him and pulled the walkie-talkie from his uniform, throwing it away from the car. She took his keys as well and shut the door behind him. He would just have to wait until someone else found him to get free. Hopefully it wasn't more than a few hours. He was awfully nice to her.

"Never leave the house without an explosive" she said quietly, feet pattering over to the far side of the hangover, closing in on the employee-only parking garage. She entered, still holding her pistol in one hand. Climbing into the elevator, she dropped down a couple floors of the structure, moving no more than 20 feet from the doors once they opened.

She crouched down, pulling a small pipe-bomb from her coat and setting the timer for 15 minutes. Just enough time to get into the building and away from the elevators. The clock started and she was off again, rising quickly into the police-building. She was inside, away from the criminal's entrance.

A small hallway greeted her, locked doors on either end. She took a right as soon as she exited, unlocked the door, and pulled it shut behind her once inside. She knew exactly where the files were kept in this hellhole. She had been there no more than a month prior, trying hard to find anything she could on her lover.

She felt herself smile. She had come here to find out who was responsible for his scars, and came up empty handed. That's why she had gone to Arkham. And here she was again, trying to find out who this man was. The only difference now was she had his name.

She approached the room, keeping her head low for the security cameras. Not that it was important if they saw her. But she didn't need to tip the officers off by looking about suspiciously. The door was locked. Harley tried every key on the chain she had, but none of them worked. She frowned, annoyed, and took a step back.

Looks like she was going to have to get in the hard way. Again.

She kicked hard near the handle, and the wood splintered, busting open. The door swung and she hurried inside, closing it behind her. Another filing cabinet, another file. It took her no more than 5 minutes this time to pry the drawer open, locate the file and pull it out when a loud BANG caught her attention.

There was her surprise for the cops. She smiled, tucked the papers away in her coat, cozy next to the Arkham ones and ducked back into the hallway.

A loud siren, accompanied by a flashing light, signaled the evacuation of the building. And from there, it was an easy get away.

She had his file in her hand, fingers curled around the delicate paper. It was wrinkled from her nervousness, wavy and crinkly where her sweaty hands had damaged it. She felt her heart racing inside of her chest and drew in a breath to try and calm her nerves.

Her teeth lured her bottom lip between them and she chewed on the soft flesh, extremely unsure of how to handle this whole situation. He would be mad she snuck out of the house. He'd be even angrier when he found out what she had snuck out for: him. To cure him, fix him of his problems, relieve him of his burdens.

She knew he wanted her to forget all of that. He wanted her to simply put her education and past behind her, forget everything she had ever learned about being a psychiatrist, and move on with her life.

But she couldn't. She couldn't give up hope on him.

She knew the moment she doubted herself, doubted that she could fix him, that he was even able to be fixed, she'd simply fall apart. She would no longer be able to function around him. She knew this was her only chance to change him, to save him from his demons.

And if he couldn't be saved, she wasn't sure she loved him. She wondered for a moment, if he couldn't be fixed… did she ever love him in the beginning? Or did she just love the idea of this man worth helping.

Her stomach flopped inside of her, screaming for her brain to quit thinking. She felt her arms quivering, and slowly headed into the hallway.

The papers in her hands rustled with her movement, and it sounded like crashing symbols in her ears. She was hypersensitive, terrified he would beat her near death for still bothering to try and fix him.

Harley shook the hair from her eyes, wishing she had put on her costume. He looked at her differently when she was behind a mask, just like she looked at him differently when he was dressed to the nines.

Between her fingers was surely her death sentence. His criminal files stolen from Arkham, and the police records of one Dmitri Jerkovic. All of the information they would need to find this man and confront him: his address, living relatives, associates… everything.

She took another deep breath and braced herself for the onslaught. She hesitated outside of the door, tried to settle her nerves, subdue the anxiety within herself. The last thing she wanted was to upset him again.

"We've found him…" Harley said to him, meekly from the doorway, one small hand curled around the jam, almost expecting to have to make a quick getaway.

His ears perked at her words.

"Found who?" He replied with control, hardly shifting his gaze away from his desk.

"_Him_" she whispered back.

There were only two "him"'s that The Joker was ever to be concerned about: the real man behind the bat mask, and the bastard who made him to be what he was today.

He paused for a moment, motion frozen mid-movement, like a photograph snapped in the middle of a crowded street. His mouth tensed, lips puckering into a thin, inward curling line. He drew in a breath through his nose, holding it in his lungs to compose himself.

Slowly, through gritted teeth, he let the air escape him and sat up straight.

"We'll have to pay him a visit then, won't we?" he cooed threateningly.


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Note: I haven't forgotten you, kiddies! Finals are coming up, and I have one more chapter to post after this one here. I plan on that being up in about 2 to 3 weeks (tops). I just hope you've enjoyed the ride as much as I have. Thanks for being so patient and kind and loyal to me these past few months. xoxo

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><p>A tall man stood in his apartment, the creeping hues of the night slowly swallowing the city skyline. He was rather slim, but incredibly powerful for his age. An older gentleman, he could easily take on almost any opponent one-on-one. However, there was never any need for him to raise a finger. He had practically hundreds of fully capable individuals willing and ready to spring at the drop of his hat. And at least another couple hundred who owed him a favor.<p>

Plenty of others to do his work.

The man pulled the shades, letting a sigh out and turned away from the window. The city had fallen into such squalor, slowly crumbling into dirt and filth and crime. He frowned to himself, raising a hand to the blinds, tugging gently on a corner to peek through the slim space between. He could see the distant lights flashing, throwing colors and shadows in a swirling pattern.

Cops. They were everywhere, trying valiantly to stop criminals. Half the cops were dirty, and the other half were so hopelessly depressed that they drowned their thoughts in liquor. He imagined it must have been disheartening to know your coworker, the guys you worked with, the man riding in the car with you, your superior, were all crooked, lining their pockets with the blood money from the city.

And this man knew he was a source of such money.

He took a step away from the window, letting the blinds fall back into their normal position. They made a snapping noise and swung gently from side to side. The soft, lulling tune from his record player greeted his ears as he turned to face it, and he felt the warmth from the music wash over him.

There was something so cathartic about music. Classic ones, anyway. The ones full of rolling pianos and swelling strings.

The sound was soothing and he walked towards it, gingerly holding a glass in one of his hands. How cliché. A small smile escaped his otherwise stony face at the thought of how silly he must look: A man of power, listening to classical music, sipping a drink alone at night.

There might as well have been a butler named Alfred tending to him.

He watched as the shiny black record turned around and around, the needle scraping gently over its surfacing, pulling every last note from it.

"Hello, old pal." He heard the familiar drawl creep from the corner of the room; low, husky and threatening. He barely turned his head, peaking over his shoulder to see the glowing white of greasepaint, the familiar criminalized face of his former apprentice.

"Jack. How good to see you." He replied, swallowing the fear that bubbled up in his throat. He set his glass down next to the record player to hide his shaking hands. He knew it was only a matter of time until the Joker banged down his door in search of him.

It would be only a little longer until he turned up in small bits floating down the river, horrifying school children riding over the bridge in a bus, his fingers and limbs and various organs bobbing like carrots and potatoes in a stew.

"Excuse me for not having a welcome party for you," he sounded, turning his head down to look at the record again. "I wasn't really expecting you this evening. I figured I had at least another week."

It was true. Ever since he heard on the evening news that not only had Arkham been broken into, but the police station (and twice at that), by a young blonde woman, Dmitri figured he still had a couple days to pack his bags and head for Cuba.

The thought of the warm sun washing over his face was far from the feeling he held currently. He felt cold, full of dread at what was to become of him.

He lifted his head again, and was about to turn on his heel to face the clown when something solid collided with the back of his head. He felt the pain erupt from the impact spot, blooming through his skull and causing his vision to swirl.

He stumbled forward, throwing an arm out to catch himself and knocked the glass from the table. It shattered in front of him and he felt himself falling, crashing into the table and overturning everything it held. His record player went flying, making an awful noise as the needle was violently ripped from his music, the whole machine skidding across the floor.

The record bounced away, rolling and swirling until it finally settled on the floor, the only sound to be heard no was the low moan of the motor within the machine still turning the table.

He groaned and turned to look up, his vision met by the haunting painted smile of his accuser, a baseball bat held above his head between two gloved hands. He watched as it was pulled higher and higher, the Joker's whole body tensed, poised to strike, coiled up and back, until it all let go, his arms coming back down over his head, and the bat collided with Dmitri's head once again.

His world went black.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note**: Well, kiddies, it's been a fun ride. It's hard for me to belief that 4 months ago I started this project, joking to my friends I was writing "The Next Great American Novel". It's hard to believe this whole thing started from a status a friend had uploaded onto a social networking sight:

_His mouth filled with an aching taste of blue... Darkness fell in from every side, a sphere of singing black. And when he was nothing, compressed at the heart of all that dark, there came a point where the dark could be no more, and something tore_

It's also hard to me to believe that I actually finished a story. I'm so incredibly proud of myself right now, and extremely humbled by your loyalty, your helpful reviews, and the confidence boosts I've received from you reading (and enjoying) my work.

Thank you. Thank you all tremendously for everything. I hope you've enjoyed this as much as I have.

I bit you all adieu.

- Lady Angelic

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><p>"Aren't you glad to see me?" The Joker whispered, gentle and caring, as if he was murmuring it to a lover. The sound swept in through the blackness, stirring the man from his unconsciousness. He slowly opened his eyes, blinking the blackness away from the corners of his eyes. He shook his head, letting out a groan and going to reach his hand towards his forehead, where it felt as if a small marching band was preceding to practice. He couldn't move his arms. A small twinge of panic punched him in his stomach.<p>

The man looked back in horror, struck with the realization of what had happened. The vague memory of his apartment… the clown face coming out of the darkness… his record player… He sighed, feeling regret pull at his heart. His record player.

He snapped back out of it, the moment's seriousness sinking in. The question…

There was no reason for this man to ever want to see the Joker again.

"It's been a long time, Jack." He croaked back, rolling his head from side to side almost drunkenly. "Didn't think I'd ever get the pleasure to see your lovely face again."

The Joker pursed his lips, hardly moving any other muscle, poised to strike at any moment. He was sitting on the edge of a chair opposite the man, his elbows resting just above his knees with his hands casually clasped between his legs. He'd look fairly relaxed if it wasn't for the hatred boiling in his eyes. He was in his typical purple slacks, his collared shirt, tucked in to the waistband of his pants, and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tie – which was strung looses around his neck – and a pair of suspenders. He didn't bother to put his vest on for the evening, having left in a fairly large rush to get here.

"You should be wary of what you say." The Joker warned coldly, turning his left shoulder slowly and stiffly towards the man.

"What, I can't _joke_ around with you anymore?"

The man must have thought himself to be far from death's door to be making such comments. The Joker stood, took two long strides towards the man, and landed a solid punch to his jaw.

The man hollered, struggling against the binds that held him to the chair, and let out a string of curse words and offenses. The Joker turned and walked to the corner of the room where his coat had been draped across a fallen beam. He pulled a roll of packing tape from one of the pockets and strolled back over to his victim, slapping a piece of the adhesive strip over his mouth.

"For your own safety, my _old pal_. Wouldn't want to lose that sharp tongue tonight, would you?" The Joker mused, petting the man's hair back in a mock-affectionate fashion.

He smacked his palm against the man's face a couple of times, cupping his cheek and turning his face towards his own. He looked down, it what might appear from afar to be an affectionate way, but up close… the man looked up at the soulless eyes that met his gaze. Dark. They were a mixture of colors, but it all just seemed black.

"Have ya missed me?" The Joker mused, hitting his face a little harder this time and then backing off, opening his arms as if he was inviting the man in. "I've changed quite a bit, you know. I'm _big_ and _famous _now. You've probably seen me on the news." He smirked bitterly, twirling a bit as if dancing, and reached a hand into his pocket, pulling out his switchblade. He held it up to his face, inspecting it and letting the light play against its sharp silver. His mind was filled with memories: memories of how he used to work for this man, how he looked up to him… He remembered the decision, with a sick determination, to leave…

The taste of blue. His heart sinking deep into the pit of his stomach. The sweat and blood and tears. He remembered the beating he received. He closed his eyes, felt his brow furrow with the thought. It filled him entirely: the dull smack of flesh hitting flesh. The sound of his face splitting, the men screaming and howling like animals.

He remembered breaking, finally, and feeling the sweet release from humanity. Never again had he felt relief so great as he did in that moment. The burden lifted from his shoulders, and he rolled onto his side, felt his smile ripped up to his ears, took the knife that had offended him, and carved those men into carcasses. He tore their very beings from them, sunk elbow deep in their lives, and emerged.

He had shed what he remembered about humanity, society, being decent and kind and good and true. He had thrown it away to survive. To live and breathe and continue being.

His hands didn't feel like his own anymore. They felt rough and calloused. His skin didn't feel like his own, either. His face was unfamiliar. It looked aged; worn from the damage it had survived. He reached his alien-like hand to his face, knowing it was his, but wanting so badly for it not to be, and touched his cheek tenderly.

The puckered scars met his fingertips first. They seemed to stretch on for miles, spreading a smile across his face that he knew he would never feel. Surreal. Slowly, he flicked his tongue out, darting it across his lower lip. Unfamiliar. He could feel all the bumps and ridges that he had come to know. The one corner of his lip was pulled lower than the other, and the skin there felt… peculiar.

He felt his mouth widen into a grimace, the closest thing he could handle to a smile. He felt the laughter bubbling in his stomach, causing his shoulders to shake first, then his hands and fingers, and finally, his lips curled up around his teeth. A smile? No. Surely not. He could never smile again, despite his best efforts. What a joke. He'd always be smiling now, no matter what he felt inside.

Or what he didn't.

He felt empty. Emptier than he had ever felt before. He felt distanced from the present, like someone had muffled his ears and covered his eyes, and all he was left with to perceive the world was what he could feel. But he was so numb.

He lowered his gaze, settled it on the man in front of him.

"_You_ are the monster here…" he croaked, face hardened and still. He didn't so much as flinch when he spoke. "Or should I just call you Frankenstein. You've _created_ this." He took a breath in, motioning to himself with both hands, one gingerly holding his knife.

"Master, please…" he mocked, throwing himself onto the floor and crawling on his knees towards the other man. "Please kill me." He whispered, began to pull desperately at the man's shirt, tugging him almost out of his seat if it wasn't for the ropes that held him in place. "I've no desire to live this way. I'm something unnatural. I've figured it out. So why, Master?" The man was stirring, trying to look away, but unable to. "Why did you do this to me?" He shook him, like trying to shake the wrinkles out of a piece of clothing, trying to get his foe to look him in the eye, to look up close and personal at what he had created.

The Joker took his knife and cut away the tape from the man's mouth. Carefully, so as not to damage the skin behind it.

"I'm going to give you one chance, Master." He said softly, and with a hint of desperation, setting the knife in the man's lap and slowly untying his hands from the armrests of the wooden chair he was bound to. "One chance to make this all better."

He held his hands out flat in front of him, motioning for the man to stay as he took a couple steps back. Slowly, he reached a hand behind him and grabbed at his coat, pulling out a revolver from the pocket. He pointed it to the man, and cocked the gun.

"Give yourself a smile." The Joker growled, his mouth pulling down into a frown.

Dmitri looked back in disbelief, unable to wrap his head around the request. He spluttered, opened his mouth to try and talk. The Joker took a warning step forward, barking at the man his command again. He whimpered and raised a shaking hand to his mouth, the knife in tow.

He began to sob, opened his mouth, and placed the edge of the knife to the corner of his mouth and pushed. His cheek pulled up with the blade, but didn't cut, and he began to shake his head, tears rolling down his face.

"Please just kill me!" He said hoarsely, throwing all pride aside and asking for mercy.

The Joker sneered back, fury running across his face. He stepped quickly towards the pathetic man in front of him and pulled the trigger, a loud BANG ringing through the room. Dmitri let out a scream, dropping the knife and holding his leg where a large bullet wound had torn through. It shattered his knee, which exploded in a bloody mess across what seemed to be everything in a ten foot radius.

His low howls were becoming increasingly irritating to listen to, and the Joker slammed the butt of his gun against the man's head, yelling out again: "GIVE YOURSELF A FUCKING SMILE!"

Dmitri shook his head and the Joker tossed the gun a couple feet away, scooping up the knife again and came at him. He pushed past the hands that tried to stop him, landing a punch against Dmitri's cheek and pushed the blade forcefully against his mouth, catching it just right to slice in two.

His flesh separated without much effort. Dmitri began to scream and sob, the Joker pushing farther until his face was lopsided. His was shaking violently, and the end of the wound wasn't as clean cut as the beginning.

The man's face was flushed, his wound pouring blood. He tried to spit, but couldn't, just dribbled blood and spit down his chin, staining his shirt. The man looked up, almost asking to be shot. He wanted this misery to end, and the Joker wanted him to experience every last moment of anguish that he had. He wanted this man to suffer.

"Please just kill me…" the man repeated, slurred, drooling and spluttering. He was hard to understand with his newly developed speech impediment.

"You'd fucking love that!" the Joker hissed back, taking the knife, curling the man's fingers around the hilt, holding his hand in his own, raising it to his face, pressing the knife, secured beneath both of their hands, to the man's other cheek and pressed the tip to the corner of his mouth. "I want you to burn in hell, you bastard."

He pushed the knife, felt him struggle beneath him, heard the man scream, and sliced his cheek in two. The man didn't stop sobbing, trying to pull his hand away, trying to stab his torturer, trying so desperately to escape.

The Joker stepped away, disgusted, and wiped his stained hand on the man's shirt.

He picked the revolver back off of the floor and pointed it towards his head, cocking the gun and holding it still. He waited, watched the man howl, leaking various fluids, face stained with blood and sweat and tears, his whole body shaking with agony. He waited, and watched him suffer.

He frowned bitterly, knowing even if he let this man bleed out in front of him, or set him on fire and watch his skin boil, it wouldn't be a tenth of what he had experienced years ago. The hatred swelled up inside of him, and he swallowed it back down.

He felt nothing as he squeezed the trigger.

The crack of the gun firing silenced everything. It rang through the room, hushing all noises.

The man's howling stopped. His head tipped back, mouth gapping unnaturally wide, tongue lolling out, dribbling blood. Slowly, the sounds began to creep back in, a dull ring sounding through the Joker's ears. He could hear his breath, sharp and uneven, a heartbeat he knew had to be his, and the faint wailing of a siren.

He turned, lowered his revolver, and left his knife in the dead man's hand. He didn't need it anymore. His gaze was unfocused as he walked away, the sharp click of his heels on concrete piercing through his concentration. His knees felt weak. His hands were quivering as he placed the gun back in his coat, swung it around his shoulders and slipped his arms through the sleeves.

Harley greeted him outside of the door where he left her, full of questions and praise and kisses. He didn't respond to any of it. She wrapped her arms around his, and walked next to him, pressing her face to his shoulder and babbling on about something… he wasn't listening at all.

His breath was shallow in his lungs, and the air felt cold inside of him. His hands were stained red and speckled of blood that had splattered across his face looked like freckles against the white grease paint.

As he closed to door behind him, he felt a small part inside of himself… tear. The emptiness inside his chest heaved, cracking as the door clicked shut. He felt himself shattering beneath his skin. The last piece of his past was left behind a shabby piece of wood. He didn't want it anymore. He wanted to be so far from his past, from the humility and shame.

He felt his knees buckle, heard Harley let out a squeal of worry, pull at his arm and try to stop him from falling. But he crumbled to the floor, palms meeting the concrete, and lowered himself to the floor. She was above him now, worry spread across her face, petting his hair back, looking him over for a wound to cause him to falter like this… Nothing. No wounds whatsoever.

He closed his eyes, face screwed up into a frown and sunk his forehead against the ground, letting out a deep groan. Something inside of him stirred to life, stretching and yawning and raised its head. The _man_, not monster, peeked through the cracks and peered out to the world around him.

He felt his face grow hot, Harley's hands on his back, and the sound emitting from his throat grew louder and louder until it peaked, turning and rolling, transforming into a laugh. _Jack_ lifted a hand, pressed it against his cheek, felt the scar spread wide, and pulled his upper lip away from his teeth.

He shook his head, crawled forward, pushed himself up onto his feet again. He looked around. It seemed dim, colorless… Harley darted into his vision again. She was unfamiliar to him: lovely, but unfamiliar. He knew he should know who she was, care for her… because she was always around.

But he felt nothing.

He bowed his head, looked down at his hands, curled and uncurled his fingers.

The blackness crept back into the corners of his vision, and swallowed him. He felt it encase him, pulled him deep down, and Jack bowed down again to it. He let the monster down there surface, bubble up to the top and use his skin as its own.

Jack breathed quietly within and felt every last ounce of control he had had for that brief moment fall from his hands, and the Clown Prince emerged once again.

And he didn't look back.


End file.
